


Abracadabra and you're still gone

by vvindyvvillovv



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Creatures Are Known, Basically a story of Derek coping, Established Relationship, M/M, Stiles is dead, Witch!Stiles, Witchy spells, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 14:43:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15075371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vvindyvvillovv/pseuds/vvindyvvillovv
Summary: So what if Derek turned up to Stiles funeral drunk? It's not a problem, he's coping fine, thanks.(Or, a story where Derek cant deal and he thinks over what he had. What he's lost. Until he doesn't have to anymore)





	Abracadabra and you're still gone

**Author's Note:**

> Like my other works, this isn't Beta'd.

Derek will always hate himself for turning up to Stiles’ funeral piss drunk, tie crooked, shirt crumpled, and his jacket half off his shoulders. His eyes were red raw and puffy, hands constantly trembling and his throat was scratchy and dry.

He wouldn’t regret it, necessarily, because he really doesn’t think he could have gone without it, that, if he had been sober, he probably would have puked all down himself the minute Scott starts to speak and then he would tremble, choke and cry his way through his own. Instead, he didn’t listen to what anyone had to say, stumbled to the podium, swayed and then puked in the grass, had to get carted away by his mother, Melissa and his aunt Corey and then threw up again in between sobs.

But at least he can blame it on the drink.

/ / /

People around Beacon Hills had always been slightly unnerved by Stiles Stilinski and his general behaviour. Even humans could sense his magic, that slight change in the air, the way his eyes constantly shone like the sun was always in them, that unidentifiable sense of unease. It would be unnerving, Derek supposed, if you couldn’t actually smell the pure magic that radiated off of him.

Derek get’s it, he really does, he’s the kid who, when he was thirteen, would walk his snake through the town centre on a magical leash. The kid who declared for an entire month that he read best when hanging upside down from a tree. The kid who kept two litres of rabbit blood in his locker for _safe keeping_. The kid who caused the largest forest fire Beacon Hills had ever seen, nearly wiping out the entire preserve, after his mother died just because he didn’t have proper control over his powers. He was magic and by _God,_ he could be incredibly dangerous if he let himself, if he felt so truly inclined to do so.

And Derek wouldn’t fault him for it either, really, because fuck, humans are cruel. Humans are fucking awful and he never had a single friend in school until Senior Year when an Omega moved to town, recently bitten by a rogue and in desperate need of a pack. His mother took him in, overcome by her motherly instincts and a sucker for his soft brown eyes and the boy’s mother who held his hand like he’s not eighteen, like he’s seven. They bought a house in the centre of town and he met Stiles on the first day of school, enthralled by his scent and immediately, the two became the best of friends.

He didn’t know Stiles then and had only met the Omega, Scott McCall, at Pack meetings, Pack gathering and at full moons, but he had heard the story enough times that it was ingrained in his mind like it was his own.

/ / /

It takes Derek three days after the funeral for him to actually feel insane. He doesn’t shower because the shampoo and soaps that they shared when he was alive hurt to smell. He doesn’t brush his teeth because they shared toothpaste. He doesn’t even really step foot in the bathroom because Stiles was, self admittedly, really fucking weird and there were numerous occasions when he’d get up in the night, Stiles’ side of the bed empty, tiptoe to the toilet to piss, flip on the light and actually _yelp_ because there’s Stiles, sitting on the ground with his legs criss-crossed eyes nearly rolling to the back of his head and he’s covered in a thick blanket, mouthing incantations. He’d wake, looking vaguely irked at being disturbed and excuse himself with _I’m re-commuting with nature, Derek_ like it’s no big deal and that he could have been expecting it.

Derek hated it. He really did, but now, all he really wants is to walk in the to bathroom and see Stiles, his little lovable freak of a boyfriend, sitting on the bathroom floor and scaring the shit out of him.

So, three days after the funeral he removes everything from the bathroom in one run. Dumps everything that they used to use together that isn’t connected to pipes, dumps it in an unused hamper and throws it out the window.

It’s ridiculous because they didn’t even live together, but at the same time, it grants him some sort of solace. And he needs as much as that as he can get his hands on.

/ / /

They got together five years after properly meeting on the dot. The exact day and near enough to the same hour. Stiles had always said it was the way things were supposed to be, Derek would ask why, and Stiles would look up at the clouds like he was making personal eye contact with God and he’d shrug and mutter _fate_ and leave it at that.

They were together for seven years before Stiles… before it happened. Stiles was against marriage, he would claim aloofly that he didn’t want to play into Derek’s ways and that he knew that he was only wanting to get married to him so they’d divorce and Derek would get to steal all of Stiles’ possessions because his family are all lawyers, including Derek himself. Derek would grin, roll his eyes and croon about how Stiles had foiled his plans.

He didn’t mind much, the rejection of marriage, because really, just being with him was enough.

/ / /

He vehemently rejects his mother's calls, jabbing angrily down on the _decline_ button and represses the urge to throw his phone against a wall. She means well, Talia, as his mother and Alpha it’s natural that she does, but he listened to the first three voicemails she had left. The ones where her tone was full of disappointment, lecturing about _how could you be so thoughtless?_ and _I get that you’re upset, Derek, but the boy’s entire family were there, watching you throw up your breakfast_ and Derek thinks it’s quite funny for her to even assume that he had eaten much of anything since Stiles left.

But the world continues to turn, Stiles on earth or not, like it just doesn’t give a fuck. Which in the grand scheme of things it probably doesn’t. Stores still open, middle-aged women jog with their annoying small dogs down his street, his mail still gets delivered. The world continues to happen and it’s bitter fucking sweet because everyone’s out there, living their lives, and Derek can’t find the strength to get out of bed, he can’t stop crying, he can’t stop waking up with a jolt and expecting Stiles to pad through from the living room, blanket wrapped around his body and dragging a hand through his hair and softly asking Derek if it’s a nightmare.

It doesn’t happen, and Stiles stays dead and his mother keeps calling, stopping by on her way to and from work to sense him through the door, making sure that he’s still alive, too.

/ / /

Their first date was in a holding cell in the Sheriff’s station. Derek had given up trying to refute that by their second anniversary.

Stiles would argue that there was food, there was a candle, they were together, they chatted and they made out in the car when Derek dropped him off home. The basic skeleton of a date.

Derek used to balance out that they were being held because Stiles had used magic in a public space when it’s against the law, no matter how accidentally he did it, and Derek was with him for getting into a very heated argument with the deputy who came to take Stiles away. That the only reason there were any candles was because the power had gone out and the backup generator just wouldn’t work after years of sitting around doing nothing and Deputy Blackhall’s wife was really getting into candle making so he had tonnes in his car that they could use for light. And how they only got fed because Stiles had levitated over the forgotten lunch of the deputies belonging to the nearest desk over. There was no denying about how they talked and talked and talked for the entire five hours they were there before Stiles’ dad let them go, fining his own son and giving Derek a very heavy glower, or how they made-out for a solid twenty minutes in the front seats of Derek’s Camaro until the Sheriff came home, shining his headlights full beam through the back window, blaring his horn loudly.

/ / /

It takes almost five weeks to get his shit together, feeling somewhat strong enough to finally look through Stiles’ things. It’s what he would have wanted, he supposes, because Stiles is – _was_ a fiend for attention. He would have been incredibly flattered with all the moping Derek was doing. Grown bored of it by week one and a bit because his attention span isn’t the best and would have grown downright restless by week two.

After all, he does owe it to him. Isn’t there an unwritten rule somewhere that if you show up roaring drunk to your boyfriends funeral and throw up all over the grass by the podium you reduce your grieving writes by a long shot?

He starts with the bookcase. It’s Derek’s, because everything in his own house belongs to him, obviously, but there are only about two of his own books on there. He keeps information regarding his cases in his office, owns a kindle for leisurely reading and most of his law books – except the two that are used as gap fillers – are up in the attic of his parents house gathering dust, waiting until another one of the Hale children decide to get into the family business.

The books that Stiles had filled them with were… disconcerting in the nicest way. All leather bound, carrying the scent of other people’s skin ( _just_ their skin), and discoloured, they all carried a great deal of character. If it were up to Derek, he’d never have them in his house because they do look like they belong on the set of a thriller involving a haunted house. All covering a large variety of subjects like dark magic ( _hypothetical reading, of course, Derek!_ ), 103 things you can do with human blood, and the 50 Shades of Grey trilogy covered in fake leather to keep with the aesthetic.

But Stiles adored them. Cherished them. And it had been pretty fucking warming when he would just leave them there, at Derek’s place, not worrying about their return, because that fucking says something. _Said_ something. Now it’s just a reminder of what he had and what he’s lost.

But he looks through them anyway.

/ / /

Stiles had no hard feelings when he was reintroduced to the very people who would actively avoid him in high school. He grinned at Erica and told her she aged well, smiled at Boyd, told Cora she looked as evil as ever with an exaggerated wink, greeted Lydia with warmth and even smiled at Jackson, although that was a little terse.

They avoided his eye.

Derek was furious. Stiles pulled him to the side, telling him to chill and that it was all alright, that he didn’t care. But Derek did because Stiles was a _human being_ , he never once had asked to be given this power. Not _once_.

He raged that they were fools, ignorant jerks and Stiles cackled and nodded. “People fear what they can’t understand,” he said with a carefree shrug. “And I don’t want to be understood.” He pressed his lips feather light to Derek’s and smiled indulgently. “And I have you, anyway. You’re the only guy I need. And Scott, of course.”

Derek had rolled his eyes, staring at the members of his Pack over the top of Stiles’ head. Continued to stare as Stiles wrapped him in his arms, fiddling with the label of Derek’s shirt.

/ / /

There’s a browned, tattered envelope hidden in the book on Dark Magic.

_My Darling Derek_

The penmanship is familiar and makes his heart hurt and the gap in his chest become more prominent. It’s Stiles’ without a shadow of a doubt, Derek could recognise that intense, overly dramatic cursive anywhere.

His hands suddenly feel shaky, or shakier as he can’t remember a time when they hadn’t been trembling since he got the call from Scott that Stiles was in a bad way, that there was nothing that they could do, that the hospital would be a waste of time at that point, that he was _sorry_.

He yanks at the red wax seal, struggling with the letter that’s folded on the inside until it’s fresh within his hands and he’s staring the content down with hard, teary eyes.

/ / /

The Pack warm to him over time. Erica was first because Stiles played right into her vainness, calling her beautiful every time he saw her, saying that a girl had never made his head turn before but _damn_ she was the closest to it. And it worked, because with three months, Erica’s number was in Stiles’ phone and vice versa. They bonded over things Derek didn’t even want to think about and by month six of their new, budding friendship Erica was entirely chilled out about Stiles’ magical abilities.

On more than one occasion she had requested it of him.

The others didn’t fall too far behind, Cora falling in line next because Derek was able to guilt her into realising her own hypocrisy, and then it was Boyd pretty much straight after because he had the biggest crush on Erica at the time and probably would have cut his own arm off to impress her.

Lydia was the last. In fact, Derek was never actually sure if she ever did warm up to him in the slightest. But she was a Banshee, she couldn’t just smell the magic, she could hear it. She could _feel_ it. Feel the potential that it had, how all Stiles had to do was make a single wrong choice in his life and he could go down as the most powerful, evilest witch in all of history.

/ / /

_My love,_

_I write to you from beyond the grave._

_Kinda. Not really. I’m actually at Coffee Bean. But I do intend for you to get this letter when I’m dead. It’s kind of refreshing to write that. When I’m dead. When I’m dead. When I die. When. When. When. Because it’s sooner than you think or thought because I’m already dead._

_Anyway._

_I’ve known about this for a while and by “while” I mean I’ve known this since I was seventeen. I knew that I’d die at 30 years old and there was nothing I could do to prevent it from happening. But, what I can do is make sure that I don’t stay dead._

_So, listen here, my beautiful man, this is how you’re going to help bring me back._

/ / /

Derek was with Stiles when he bought that house on the outskirts of the preserve, the very one his parents never wanted him to go near when he was a child. Stiles didn’t care when Derek warned him of this, instead, he snickered, shrugged, and said he liked the _feel_.

It was a single storey cabin made with dark, nearing on black, wood and a straw roof that changed its colours throughout the seasons, absolutely awful for when it rained. It would always smell vaguely charred, like it had been up in flames once upon a time but there were no records of it – it hadn’t been touched by Stiles’ blaze back in 2004, none of the residential lots had been – and Stiles would swear up and down that there had been no accidents when cooking or in any other form which Derek only believed because his heart rate never spiked. The large, overpowering tree in his backyard radiated energy like nobody’s business and Stiles absolutely adored it. Derek hated it.

/ / /

“Hi,” Derek’s words felt weird in his mouth, he felt a little like his tongue was a bit too big, “um, can I – you don’t happen to have any of the things on this list, do you?” With a shaky hand, he held out the list he had printed in his own writing, transferring it from Stiles’ letter, and watched as the sales assistant takes it gently.

He watches as she reads it once, frowning deeply and goes in for another read and then another. “Sir,” her voice is hesitant and he can smell the slight uptick in her anxiety, “this is Whole Foods. We – a _pig heart?_ ” Her cheeks catch onto some heat and Derek can feel himself blush. “What would you – no. I don’t want to know.” The list is forced back into his hands and if the contents on the list weren’t so bizarre, completely deserving of her response, he would have maybe considered leaving a shitty review just for the sake of it.

“Not all of it,” Derek murmurs, downcasting his eyes so he’s looking at the floor and at his feet, rather than anywhere near her. “Just – Rosemary. Um, maybe even sage leaves?”

The girl's scent goes sour and Derek doesn’t even wait for an answer before he’s deciding to take himself off the premises. He’d rather that than the embarrassment of getting escorted off by security. Not for the fifth store he’s tried, no, that’s just embarrassing.

/ / /

“You’re ridiculous,” Stiles would often say as they lay in the dark, Netflix playing softly on the TV, Derek’s fingernails gently scratching through his hair.

“Mmm,” Derek would hum, “you always say the _sweetest_ things. I’m blushing.” He’d move his hand down to sweep over Stiles’ eyes, smiling a little when he’d get an indignant scoff in retaliation.

“I’m serious!” Stiles would proclaim, tilting his head back to stare into Derek’s eyes like he was looking directly into his soul. “You’re – _fuck_. You’re just you, aren’t you?” He’d say this like it was both a problem and the best damn thing. “You’re so fucking gorgeous.”

“And that’s bothering you?” Derek would ask, tone light and teasing and Stiles would beam.

He’d nod looking convinced. “Such a problem. Wanna be on you all the time. My time is wasted when I’m not near you.”

Derek would blush at this point, craning his neck down to smother it in his hair. “Shut up.” Stiles would laugh and pat at Derek’s thigh because it was no secret that he had never learned how to accept a compliment.

/ / /

_When you have everything_

Derek braces himself, standing outside the office towards the back of the Sexual Health clinic with a morose look, his bag filled with things he doesn’t want to ever see again. Ever. Because frogs breath? What the fuck is that even for? Who uses that outside of cheesy, completely inaccurate supernatural movies?

_go to Morrell. She’s tall, and actually smoking. She was the one who told me about my fate and Derek? If the spell doesn’t work, I fully encourage you to make babies with her. They’d be amazing. Just call one of them Stiles._

It gives him chills when she doesn’t so much as blink at him when she opens the door. And Stiles was right, this Morell woman radiates beauty. “Derek,” she says, her voice airy and mystical. “I’m glad you’re here. We’re almost out of time.”

/ / /

Nearly a month before Stiles died, he stood at his bedroom window completely naked, hands on his hips and his head cocked to the side. Derek couldn’t be sure, still bleary from sleep, but he had thought he had seen a figure on the other side of the window pane.

Dark, almost entirely transparent, nearly blending in with the haze of the forestry behind it. He didn’t react, convinced he was in the land between being awake and still locked within his dreams, but Stiles started to speak and it wasn’t to Derek.

“I _know_ , don’t you think I know?” he stressed, hands tightening on his waist. “Trust me. It’s in motion.”

“Stiles?”

Stiles jumped, startled like Derek had never seen before and he turns around, eyes wide and scared. The figure behind him disappears and Derek breathed a sigh of relief. “Go back to sleep, Der,” his voice was odd – hardened, stern and so not Stiles. But Derek was delirious, exhausted and didn’t need much coaxing to fall back asleep.

“You’ll come back though, yeah?” he had huffed out, his eyes heavy and begging to close.

Stiles had let out a barking laugh. “If I have any say in it I will be.”

/ / /

Seeing Stiles’ dead body is incredibly unnerving. His face pale and sunken, lips chapped, hair standing perfectly. It makes Derek want to throw up all over again.

Morell lets out a sigh and presses two fingers to Derek’s temple and he stumbles. “What was that?”

“You think I want you puking all over his gravestone? On the grass where I’m about to perform intense spells?” she asks, tone cruel and Derek hunches in on himself, feeling very much like a scolded child. “Just –“ she releases a pinched breath and busies herself with looking through the contents of the bag, “stand over there and don’t touch anything. And keep in mind that I don’t want you here, Hale. You’re only here because Stiles wants you to be.”

Derek frowns and feels incredibly unwanted. He sits on the damp ground next to the gravestone of Juliet Barker who died in two thousand and eleven and is a much-loved daughter, friend and confidant.

It takes Morrell three hours to set everything up and only three minutes for the spell to be completed. The sun is already starting to rise at this point and the only thing keeping Derek awake is the anticipation of seeing Stiles again. Because it’s going to work, it has to.

/ / /

The week running up to Stiles’ death was bad. Stiles was unhinged, he acted like sleep was his enemy and took it rather personally when Derek would have to go to work.

Derek hadn’t understood, found it rather annoying, actually, having to go to work feeling guilty for leaving Stiles in his apartment or in his house when he had looked so lost, so unlike himself. He’d never admit it out loud, but he was actually _angry_ about it. Hated how Stiles would frown and pout, gripping tightly onto his bicep as he tried to walk out the door, how he’d fucking _plead_ , how he’d _beg_ that Derek just stay at home, take a vacation.

Derek hadn’t understood then. But he understands now, understands that Stiles knew he was about to die, was likely counting down the minutes, and all he wanted to do was spend a little more time with Derek alone. He understands that Stiles was _scared_ because magic isn’t certain. Sometimes, spells don’t work out, and if this one didn’t, he couldn’t come back. And _fuck_ , that’s a scary thought.

/ / /

“You _bastard_ ,” the words were out of Derek’s mouth before he had a chance to stop them. He rises to his feet, cheeks flushed and hands balled at his sides, the prick of his claws digging into his palm and blood sinking into his nailbeds. “You – _why_? You could have told me! You could – You _bastard!_ ”

Stiles is on his feet, leaning heavily into Morrell and muttering under his breath, trying to get her assurances that this is real, that the spell has actually worked, that he’s really here.

He hasn’t looked at Derek yet and Derek doesn’t know how he’ll react when he does.

She’s talking back, too, with exaggerated eye rolls and really looking like she has other, more important things to do now that she had done her part. Now that Stiles is now not dead and very much alive.

His eyes are already wet, casting trails down his cheeks and his throat feels like it’s closed up and he can’t stop shaking. It feels like no time has gone past at all, like he’s back to two weeks ago in the same state, like if he opens his eyes, _really tries to open them_ he’ll be awake in his room, alone, with Stiles still dead and him still lonely and his mother still calling.

Morrell rubs a hand over Stiles’ shoulder and walks off into the tree line. Derek watches her leave, sinking into the shadows without so much of a second glance and he swipes at his nose with his sleeve.

“I – uh,” Stiles clears his throat and scratches his nails through his hair, messing it to his preference, “I didn’t think you’d do it in time,” he confesses, voice small and timid and Derek sees red. “Gotta admit,” he says with a coy tug at his lips, eyes looking like he’s trying to judge the situation, on what he can and cannot say, “I was getting a littler nervous.”

“Yeah?” he asks harshly, “well, maybe I would have been quicker if you had told me. If you’d just said something – anything!” Stiles frowns, not bothering to refute that point because he knows Derek’s right, he has to know.

“I’m sorry,” and he sounds sincere. It pulls at Derek’s heartstrings and he clenches his jaw, trying to qualm the wobble in his chin. Trying not to burst into undignified tears and slump into the ground. He’s done enough of that. “Hey,” Stiles says softly in a tone that was usually reserved for injured animals, “hey, hey, look at me – baby, come on.” He tucks to fingers under his chin and Derek hadn’t seen him move forward but that could be something to do with the way his vision is blurred with tears. “I’m here, okay? I’m not leaving. Not again.”

Derek lurches forwards, gripping at Stiles like he’s a lifeline, sobbing into his shoulder.

“You _left_ ,”

“I know.”

“Just – _gone_.”

“I’m sorry.”

Derek inhales, raking in a shaky breath and his mind reels, basking in the scent that’s so fresh that he had thought he’d lost forever. “But you’re back.”

“Yeah.”

“Not leaving?”

Stiles snuffs out a laugh and presses his lips into Derek’s hair. “Nah,” he says easily, “I’m good here.”


End file.
